


Girl

by orphan_account



Category: Glee
Genre: BDSM, Belts, Corporal Punishment, Domestic Discipline, F/F, Spanking, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-01-15
Packaged: 2017-11-25 14:42:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/639938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Yale, Quinn Fabray became a high-powered agent and her days are filled brokering roles and deals for her demanding clients. Her nights are spent being the loved wife of one Rachel Berry, in a relationship that is for the most part vanilla. But despite the new hyphen in her last name Quinn is still a Fabray, and sometimes the pressure of succeeding and the need for approval gets the best of her. She wants to control but she NEEDS to be controlled, and when things get too much, she snaps. She pushes and pushes Rachel until finally she can't take it anymore, and punishes Quinn the way she knows she needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Girl

_Monday_

“I don’t think you understand,” she said, palms down on the table and leaning forward. The woman in front of her, to her credit, had the good sense to pale and look terrified. “We’re not going to settle for any of this ‘maybe’ crap. If you say your ideas are good and the projected profits are sound then you do what you’re supposed to do and give – my client – a  _contract_.” She said this last part through clenched teeth, her eyes narrowed. The young man sitting next to her was just as freaked out as the woman, she figured in triumph. Still, her gaze flickered to the clock on the wall.

10 p.m.

Quinn sighed.

Later that night – or rather, early morning because it was 1 a.m. before Quinn finally made it home – Rachel spooned her and softly sang into her ear, her breath warm and tickling the hairs that rested at the base of Quinn’s neck.

“Rachel, stop it,” Quinn snapped. “I need to sleep.”

Six o’clock always came way too early.

The girl behind her, to her credit, had the good sense to tighten her hold on Quinn, whispering “Good night, baby, I love you” with a kiss.

Quinn felt the tears well up in her eyes, hot and humiliating.

_Tuesday_

Rachel wordlessly handed her coffee, eyes watching Quinn carefully over her own cup.

Quinn didn’t say anything either. She didn’t want to talk, not about her day, not about what she had to do, not about the nightmare that had her sitting bolt upright in bed, panting and shaking. She stomped about the apartment like a five year old being told she needs a nap; she couldn’t find the papers she needed and everything she’s worked for in the last three months would fall through if she couldn’t find them. And honestly why can’t she find anything in this damn apartment despite the fact that Rachel insisted on keeping it spotless? Then Rachel cleared her throat, soft and insistent.

“What, Rach?” She turned, frustrated.

Quinn’s briefcase was in her hand. Rachel held it out. “I put your papers in there about ten minutes ago,” she explained, her voice a little hurt. “I knew you needed them so I put them where it was most logical for you to have them.”

She fought past the twinge of guilt and took the briefcase from Rachel. “Thanks,” she muttered.

By the time 11 a.m. rolled around Rachel had left three text messages and two voicemails on Quinn’s phone.  She was in the middle of a conference call with an angry producer and her boss (who was away on vacation and had left Quinn in charge) when her cell went off _again_ , and Quinn excused herself, hitting the mute button and growling low in her throat before answering.

“Rachel, for god’s sake,” she said by way of hello. “I don’t have time for you to keep calling me like some sort of nanny, what is it?”

She rested her head on her hand when Rachel, a strained edge to her voice, explained that she’d also put lunch in Quinn’s briefcase, and she wanted to make sure Quinn ate, because she needed to keep up her strength. Quinn managed to choke out another thank you as that familiar feeling engulfed her. She could hear  _his_  voice in the back of her head. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to concentrate on getting back to the conference call.

It was only when she heard Rachel sniffle as she ended the call that Quinn realized she’d forgotten to kiss Rachel bye when she’d left.

_Wednesday_

“Quinn, sweetheart, can you pay the power bill today?”

Quinn pulled off her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Rachel,” she said, with a puff of air from her lips, fingers drumming lightly on the checkbook she was trying to balance, “I have six million different things I have to do today, most of them before eleven. I really, really don’t have the time.”

“You’ll have to make the time then,” Rachel said quietly, and Quinn was surprised at how sharp her wife could sound even when her voice was barely above a whisper. She felt a chill, another familiar feeling settling low in the pit of her stomach, but she shook it off and tried not to hear what Rachel was saying to her.

“I have six million things I have to do as well, Quinn. I’m asking you to do this one thing for me, baby, please, because if it doesn’t get paid today it’ll be late and they’ll charge us an extra fifty dollars we don’t have.”

“Fine,” Quinn shook her head. “Whatever, Rach, I’ll do it.” She looked down at the checkbook just as Rachel’s lips brushed her cheek. Quinn smiled a little, trying not to think of a big house and no worries, of budgeting and living paycheck to paycheck.

This time it wasn’t a voice she heard, but laughter.

She was late getting out of the apartment to go to work. The power company was on the way, and Quinn slowed her car as she approached. She glanced down at the bill on the passenger seat, then at the building.

Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel as she sped back up and drove past.

_Thursday_

Unacceptable.

It hit her like a B on a test, like a stumble in a cheerleading routine, like a… missed note in a song. Her lips curled upward at that comparison, but it did nothing to lessen the sting of the yellow post-it stuck to the proposal that had taken months of careful planning and sleepless nights. One word, that held so much power.

Her client found her… unacceptable. So unacceptable that it didn’t even warrant a phone call, or an email, or a hasty lunch in a busy restaurant. She was worth no more than a post-it note. Quinn didn’t even realize she was crying until the first tear splashed onto the paper. The sight of the tiny drop pooling made her angry, and she clenched her fists. She would work harder. She would work harder, and she would be better, and she’d make them all see. She hadn’t graduated with honors at Yale for nothing, she hadn’t found her true calling for no reason, and she hadn’t gotten the hell out of Lima, Ohio and into the arms of her Rachel to be done in by one stupid client who didn’t even have the talent for Axe commercials.

Her Rachel.

Quinn glanced over at the picture on her desk, a picture of herself and Rachel at their wedding. Beaming and happy, both of them in white, with Rachel’s arm possessively around her waist. Rachel was Quinn’s prize, her reward for hard work. Rachel with her bright smile and beautiful voice, her endless capacity for forgiveness and an uncanny ability to ground her girlfriend, to keep Quinn from going too far into her own head. Giving her the release she needed…

Quinn shook her head. She didn’t need it. She was fine. It was just a setback, a “mere inconvenience,” as Rachel would say. She’d get through this and things would be perfect. There would be more clients, more time to snuggle Rachel, make love to her, and tell her she loved her. After she got her work done.

Her pen stilled when the voice came again, clear and snide.

“See?” Russell said as if he was standing there in the room with her. “You’ll never make it. I always knew just what you were. A disappointment.”

She choked back a sob and dug her pen into the paper.

She would be fine.

_Friday_

She’d overslept. She’d overslept and  _god_ , it was already half past six. She was scrambling around, trying to get dressed while brushing her teeth at the same time. She could hear Rachel in the kitchen, could smell bacon frying and for the moment it made her irrationally  _angry_  that Rachel let her sleep in instead of waking her. Rachel  _knew_  she had work to do, what was she  _thinking_? Teeth brushed, hair pulled into a tight bun on her head, work clothes a little mussed but otherwise do-able, Quinn stomped into the living room and started shoving papers into her briefcase.

“Baby, sit down and have breakfast.”

“I can’t,” Quinn said through clenched teeth. “I don’t have time.”

“You need to make time, Quinn, you’ve been ridiculously stressed this last week and you need to relax.”

You know what I need, Quinn thought to herself, but shook her head. No. She didn’t. She’d be just fine without it. Just. Fucking. Fine.

“Rachel, I appreciate you making breakfast, I really do, but I can’t stay. I have to get to work.”

She heard Rachel sigh and Quinn hated herself. Three years married after  _so many_  damn years of wishing and waiting, and now she couldn’t even be assed to have breakfast with the girl who changed her life? And then Rachel was speaking again and Quinn felt sick to the pit of her stomach because suddenly, suddenly her entire adult life was gone and she was a sixteen year old again.

“That’s fine, I’ll just put it in a container and you can take it with you; you can eat it at your desk in the office. At least I’ll know you’re attempting to take care of yourself. Also, baby, did you get the electric bill paid, because I know you were distracted and –“

“Dammit, manhands,  _shut up_!”

It was as if the very air around them had stopped. Quinn, who had been leaned over the couch, trying to find her keys amongst the cushions, went rigid. There was nothing: no sharp intake of breath, no whimper, no angry words. Not even a stomp.

There was, simply, nothing. And that… meant everything.

She stood up and turned to Rachel. “Baby,” she said softly. “Baby I am so sor-“

Rachel held up a hand, then held out her arms. Quinn practically flew into them, nestling her face into the curve of Rachel’s neck. “Baby, I just… I…”

“Shh.” Rachel’s hand was firm, stroking Quinn’s hair. “I know.” She drew back and looked into Quinn’s eyes, brushing a stray tear away with her thumb.

The words that Quinn had been waiting for, dreading and hoping for, came from her lips.

“We’ll take care of this when you get home. Four p.m., Quinn, not a moment later.”

No. She didn’t need it, she didn’t, she… She nodded.

Rachel kissed her at the door, then handed Quinn her briefcase. “I love you,” she said gently, and Quinn couldn’t help from pressing her lips against Rachel’s again, desperately.

On the way to work she stopped and paid the electric bill.

_Friday, 4 p.m._

Rachel isn’t home.

In a way it’s better and worse at the same time. Better because she can prepare alone, get herself into the headspace that she needs for what’s going to happen. Worse because she wants Rachel. She wants to curl up in her arms, to feel Rachel around her, smell the soft perfume that Quinn buys her every Hanukkah. To feel Rachel’s hand in her hair, Rachel’s lips on hers. To… feel.

And the waiting is agonizing. Rachel never makes it last too long, she knows Quinn’s potential to get  _too far_  in, and somehow she always manages to arrive just when Quinn’s dangling over the point of no return. But the getting there… Quinn hates it. She hates it even more than the inevitable pain.

Because if there’s anything Quinn hates more than physical pain, it’s being left alone.

She’s already crying, little trickles running down her face as she puts her briefcase in the closet. She won’t be needing it anymore tonight. She’s trembling, barely able to walk as she makes her way to the bedroom. She takes off her shirt, laying it to the side, then makes quick work of her pants, folding them up. She puts her shirt on top of the pants; her underwear is the next to go, panties then bra, then socks, all in a neat pile on the bed. Finally, she reaches up and pulls her hair out of its confines, shaking the golden locks so that they fall about her shoulders.

She is naked and the air is cold. She takes a deep breath, her fingers flexing in and out as she fights for control.

There is none.

She makes her way to the dresser, to the last drawer at the bottom, hesitating before sliding it out. She rummages through, running through every available scenario in her mind and trying to guess which will be the best for her.  She chooses the leather cuffs. She moves to close the drawer but something catches her eye and she hesitates again. Fingers trace over the form and she closes her eyes.

No control.

The collar takes its place on the bed.

The next stop is the bathroom. She won’t have time – she smirks to herself, when had that phrase become her personal mantra? – to go to the bathroom, not till after, and she’ll be damned if she interrupts anything with a stupid request like the need to relieve herself. She does need relief, but not that.

Rachel and Quinn’s apartment is decorated simply, something that had surprised Quinn when she’d moved in with her. She’d half-expected her girlfriend’s apartment to be lavish and rich, Broadway posters littering the walls and only finest of music (Barbra, naturally) daring to grace a huge, top of the line player in the living room. Instead, the only player is the dock for their ipods, there are only two Broadway posters in the entry to the apartment, and Rachel has a thing for pillows. Lots and lots of pillows. Decorative ones on the couch, comfy ones on the bed. And one that Quinn retrieves from the hall closet and places on the floor in front of the door. Cold tile has never been her thing; they’d learned that after the first time. She looks down at it, and knows that Rachel chose Cheerios red for a reason.

Quinn kneels down. She tucks her hands behind her back, gripping her wrists, and bows her head.

She waits.

She wonders what Rachel is doing. She knows Rachel will have taken today off, called in sick to the theater, and Rachel usually doesn’t mind because believe it or not her understudy is quite adequate. She can hear Rachel’s voice in her head – over the other one – and Quinn lets herself smile a little even as the tears are still falling. She knows Rachel not being there yet is just part of what they’re doing, but the irrational side of her, the one that sounds remarkably like Russell Fabray, is full of what-ifs.

What if Rachel is angry with her? Well, no, she knows the answer to that: of course Rachel is angry with her. Angry for letting it get to this point, for not talking to her, for not trusting her. She’ll hear all that later, that’s a given. But what if… what if this time, it was too much? What if Rachel is so angry she’s decided that enough is enough, that she can’t take this anymore and let’s face it, Quinn Fabray (-Berry) just isn’t worth it?

Because she isn’t. She knows she isn’t.

So that’s it. Rachel’s going to come home and tell her it’s over. That they’re through. That she doesn’t deserve to be treated like she was when she was 16 years old, not when they’re almost thirty and really, she thought Quinn would be over this kind of behavior by now. She’ll tell Quinn to pack her bags, and for the third time in her life Quinn will hear those words.

Get out.

She hears him, hears him saying those words and she’s imagining Rachel saying them until somehow the two separate voices aren’t two but one, in a steady rhythm of unison, of derision, of just how…  _wrong_  she is. She wants to raise her hands to her ears but she can’t, she’s not allowed to change position once she’s in it. But she can’t make them stop either; her breath is coming ragged, panicked gasps and she feels as if she’s going to fall, but then…

A click of the lock.

A click of the lock, the door opening. Keys clink into the bowl that sits on the table next to the door, the door closes.

Quinn’s body relaxes – only a little – when she smells perfume. Rachel has come home.

Rachel doesn’t acknowledge her; again, that’s oddly a comfort. She knows what Rachel is doing. Going to the bedroom, looking at the bed. Sometimes Rachel will approve; more often than not she’ll change something, and that’s because after years of doing this she knows what Quinn needs and how she needs it.

It had happened by accident, really; one week the first year they’d lived together Quinn had been insufferable because of finals, and had made Rachel’s life a living hell. Rachel had teased about throwing Quinn over her lap and spanking her bad attitude out of her, and after one too many biting comments, one night she did just that. Quinn had kicked, had swore, had threatened to leave, and for some reason Rachel just kept spanking, first over Quinn’s pajama pants, then on her bare bottom. And something happened.

Quinn gave in. Midway through the spanking she stopped struggling, whether it was from the sting in her bottom or in her eyes from the tears she wasn’t sure. But she stopped, and cried so hard that she wasn’t even sure when Rachel had stopped smacking her. Rachel had been mortified, frightened that she’d suddenly moved into abusive girlfriend territory, but her fear turned into shock when Quinn crawled up into her lap and clung to her, sobbing out everything that had been going on and how horrible she felt. They’d sat up for hours, Rachel holding Quinn and telling her over and over how much she was loved, until eventually they’d fallen asleep with Quinn still tucked into her girlfriend.

The one thing they’d figured out was that it wasn’t sexual. They’d had sex once after “an incident,” as Rachel called them, and it left them both feeling out of sorts and wrong. So they left that part out, preferring to just cuddle and take comfort in each other afterward. It worked for them.

After a few long minutes, Rachel returns. Quinn doesn’t look up from the floor, she hasn’t been given permission to, and that’s okay. She knows her cheeks are wet and red with shame; she doesn’t want Rachel to see that, even though by the end of the night she’ll have seen everything. This is the point where Quinn always wants to back out, where she wants to tell Rachel that she’s all right, she can do without, she’ll be just fine with a good night’s sleep.

And it’s at this point when Rachel comes to stand beside Quinn and her fingers run lovingly through Quinn’s hair. She hasn’t been told she can move, but Quinn can’t resist and she turns her head to rest her cheek on Rachel’s thigh. She nuzzles in, feeling that “slipping away” that tells her no, she won’t be backing out tonight. She never does. Rachel is just there, stroking her hair and  _being_.

“Look at me.”

She does. Rachel isn’t naked, she never is, that’s part of the agreement, the one drawn up in writing – Rachel is nothing if not thorough – and tucked into the bottom drawer along with everything else. Instead she’s wearing a simple pair of black shorts and a white tee shirt, and the collar is in her hands. Rachel smiles down at Quinn, but with the little bit of apprehension that she always has in moments like these. It’s a fine line, and Rachel stays cognizant of it. Quinn feels the rush of love and she wants to throw herself forward, wrap her arms around Rachel’s waist and bury her face in Rachel’s stomach.

But she controls herself.

Rachel leans down and in a second the collar is snug around Quinn’s neck. She goes hazy for a moment and is brought back by Rachel’s hand in her hair again, firm this time, tugging until Quinn tips her head back to look at her.

“What are you?” Rachel asks.

“Yours,” Quinn responds. It’s immediate; she will always answer this question that way, no matter if they’re doing this or not.

“And who are you?”

This part she hates.  _This_  part she can’t stand and this is the part that Rachel insists upon, that Quinn fought tooth and nail until they’d gone a year long stretch of doing nothing at all about it, until the day when she just couldn’t take it anymore and was on her knees, begging. She was so sore afterward she’d had to call out two days in a row, but the agreement was cemented. And Rachel decided she  _really_  liked Quinn on her knees.

Her answer is soft, but clear.

“Girl.”

“That’s right,” Rachel says, cupping girl’s cheek with her hand, and girl turns her face to kiss Rachel’s palm. God, she worships this woman. She doesn’t deserve her, not one bit.

“Come with me, girl.”

“Yes, Rachel.” They’d tried different things – Mistress, ma’am, my lady, madam – and Rachel had hated each one. Finally they just decided that Rachel would be the only one to keep her name.

Rachel drops her hand and walks towards the bedroom; she doesn’t need to look to know that girl has automatically started to crawl behind her. Girl had initiated that part of the agreement herself; somehow it didn’t seem right for her to walk and be taller than Rachel when it was Rachel who had complete power at times like this.

Once in the bedroom girl stops in the middle of the floor, back up on her knees with her hands behind her back. Her gaze falls to the bed and her heart stops.

Next to her pile of clothes, next to the leather cuffs, is a change in plans. The belt is an old one of Rachel’s, dark brown and coiled, supple with use, its buckle gone. They’d never used it before; Rachel had always been hesitant even if girl had asked her for it more than once.

“Are you all right?” Rachel queries uncertainly.

Girl shakes her head. “I-  _Girl_  is all right, Rachel,” she amends. “Girl is just… surprised.”

Rachel nods and moves to stroke girl’s cheek one more time. “Do you trust me, girl?”

She nods, vigorously. “With my life, Rachel.” It’s the most honest she’s ever been.

“Up on the bed, then. Pile the pillows in the middle then lay over them.”

“Yes, Rachel.”

Three pillows, neatly stacked in the center of the bed. Girl crawls up onto the bed then and rests her stomach on the pillows, her bottom now high and exposed. She stretches her hands out, waiting. There was a small metal ring at the center of the headboard, usually unobtrustive and unnoticed, but today it means everything as Rachel quickly fastens the cuffs around girl’s wrists, crosses them, then locks them to the ring. She lays the belt across girl’s forearms.

“We can’t have you trying to protect yourself and getting hurt instead,” Rachel says and girl wants to roll her eyes because she says it every time she’s cuffed, and it’s like a broken record now. But at the same time she can’t take her eyes off that belt, and Rachel’s hands are lovingly caressing her wrists and checking the bonds to make sure they’re not too tight, and the tears of shame rush to her eyes and spill over again.

“Yes, Rachel. Rachel?”

“What?”

“Girl is sorry,” she says quietly. “Girl is so, so sorry.”

Rachel’s hand runs tenderly down her back to her bottom, smacking once, sharply. Girl gasps even as she lifts herself up a little; she knows that as soon as this starts, it will end, and things will be all right again.

“I know,” Rachel says. “I’ll take care of you, girl.”

“Yes Rachel, thank you, Rachel,” Girl breathes as Rachel’s hand picks up a steady rhythm against her bottom, warming it. She knows that her skin is taking on a slight shade of pink, and that Rachel loves it, even if there’s nothing sexual about what they’re doing. Her ass is starting to sting now and that feeling in her belly is getting stronger, getting worse.

She’ll fight it. It won’t happen. Not this time.

“Do you know why we’re here, girl?” Rachel asks, still spanking her.

Girl scrunches her face. Sometimes Rachel is so much like a mother with her punishments, being careful and introspective, when half the time girl just wants Rachel to _beat_  her. But if Rachel is like a mother, girl knows Rachel knows best, so she sniffles as she answers.

“Because girl is bad… ah!” She yelps when Rachel’s hand lands harshly, right where her thigh meets her left bottom cheek.

“No,” Rachel scolds. “That is not true. Now tell me, why are we here?”

Once again girl’s fingers flex in and out; her arms are stretched so that her muscles are beginning to burn a little. Rachel’s hand doesn’t let up and girl can already feel the desperation growing. She knows it’s going to happen. It always does.

“Girl can’t take care of herself,” she answers. “Girl gets stressed out and i-is mean to Rachel, and-and girl doesn’t deserve someone like Rachel.”

Rachel sighs, and it’s such a disappointed sound that girl lets out a sob even before Rachel picks up the belt and moves a little further back from the bed. The loss of contact with Rachel nearly breaks girl; they’ve never done this. It’s always been skin-to-skin, with Rachel close and reassuring even as she’s making her girl cry in pain.

“P-please,” Girl stutters, instinct to flail wildly taking over, and the headboard rattles. “Please, Rachel, I- Girl… please….”

But Rachel doesn’t return. Girl doesn’t turn her head, she’s not been told she can, but if she strains she can see Rachel just out of the corner of her eye, standing just slightly apart from the bed.

“Do you want to use the word?”

It’s there, her out. Her way to end all of this. To make it stop, to just go to sleep curled up in Rachel’s arms because girl knows Rachel would  _never_  judge her for having to safeword. She can do it. It’s one word, one simple (albeit silly and very  _Rachel_ ) little word; she licks her lips and tastes salt – her tears. She can do it.

She shakes her head. “No, Rachel.”

“All right. We’re here,” Rachel says, and the controlled anger and sharpness in her voice is such a relief girl is already sobbing by the time the belt lashes across her bottom, “Because you’re wrong, girl.” Rachel brings the belt back and strikes girl again. She cries out, fists clenching and fingernails digging into her palms.

“Tell me, girl. Why are you here?” Her blows are methodical, careful. Just as girl has time to recover from the sting the strap lands again; she knows that her ass is becoming a map of crisscrossed stripes and that Rachel will soon move to the back of her thighs so that every time she sits for the next week girl will remember what brought her to this point.

“Because girl – oh! is bad,” she reiterates, not giving up. “Girl is mean, and wrong, and awful – ah! And girl doesn’t deserve someone – ouch! as wonderful as Rachel.”

“No.” Rachel is barely controlling her own emotions; she hates these sessions almost as much as girl does. It had taken girl a while to convince Rachel that this really was what she needed; Rachel finally realized, when girl almost immediately came back to her own self after punishment, that sometimes this was the only way she could help.

“No, you are not bad, or mean, or awful, or any of those things, girl. And we’ll stay here all night if I have to prove that to you this way.”

She always threatens that, and she never means it. Girl manages a faint smile though Rachel continues to whip her; she’s thrusting up to meet the strap even as her legs have begun to kick, as her sobs have turned into strangled wails and barely coherent pleadings. But her pleadings are ignored because Rachel is still speaking and she says the one thing that girl has never expected, the thing that makes her entire body shudder.

“I’m not him, girl.”

She feels sick. She really feels as if she is going to throw up and she can taste the bile in the back of her throat. Rachel is still spanking her, but there’s no comfort in the fact that it’s gone on for nearly five minutes and Rachel will be stopping soon because she doesn’t want to bruise her. There’s no comfort because even as girl says “Rachel, please, girl can’t…” Rachel is still speaking.

“I’m not him, girl. I don’t think you’re bad, or horrible, or mean. I don’t think you don’t deserve me. You deserve me more than anything in the world, and I’m never going to leave you, I’m not your fa-“

“Metaphor!”

She breaks. Finally she breaks and she breaks hard, with wails coming out of her so loud that Rachel will swear later that they were lucky the cops didn’t get called. “Metaphor, metaphor, metaphor,” she babbles and in an instant it’s over. She can’t see Rachel throw the belt across the room like it’s a snake; she barely feels the cuffs being removed.

“Metaphor, metaphor, don’t leave me, Rachel, don’t leave me, I’m s-sorry, sorry, please, so sorry, sorry, Rachel…”

She doesn’t even feel the sting in her ass when Rachel rolls her off of the pillows onto the bed. What she  _does_  feel is Rachel’s lips on her, on her forehead, on her eyelids, on her cheeks, on her lips, kissing her over and over, softly and gently. She’s whispering, telling girl to come back to her, that it’s okay, but girl needs relief and the words come spilling out of her faster than she can sob them.

“Don’t you see, I’m bad? I can’t.. I can’t even pay the electric bill like you ask me to. I’m no good at work, my boss is unhappy and my clients think I’m not good enough. I’m so tired, Rachel, so tired, but I try so hard, I try not to be so tired and I try to do a good job, but it’s all wrong. It’s all wrong and then I make my  Rachel sad, I love you  _more than anything_ but you’re going to get tired of me being such a bitch like always one day a-and then I.. I’ll be all alone again. I just want someone to love me, just- just love me, Rachel, please just love me, please don’t leave me…”

She lets go. Days and weeks of frustration that have built up explodes out of her and in her mind all she can see is Rachel standing at the door, anger on her face, a harsh New York night in front of girl, and a yellow taxi waiting as she struggles with the weight of a suitcase in her hand. Rachel’s face becomes his, New York becomes Lima, and girl lets go, at once sixteen and nearly thirty, a powerful agent and once more a little girl lost.

“Baby.  _Baby_.” Rachel is rocking her, wincing a little at girl’s nails digging into her chest, she is clinging so hard. But she holds on, anchoring her, finally reaching to entwine the fingers of one hand with hers, and girl holds on for dear life.

“I am not leaving you.” She says it over and over, quietly; it’s almost like the prayers girl says by memory as bead after bead slips through her fingers. She feels the storm subsiding, feels the gentle rocking motion and the rhythm of her Rachel’s heart and soon girl is silent except for an occasional sniffle, a hiccup, a last sob that she can’t hold back.

Rachel’s hand is in her hair. “I could  _never_  leave you,” she says firmly. Though she’s said this same speech for what seems like a hundred times it’s never really the same, always new, always as if girl has been deaf and is hearing it for the first time.

“Baby, I  _love_  you. You’re my girl, I could never be without you, and why on earth would I want to be?” Rachel kisses her eyelids again. “You’re not perfect –“ She places a finger over girl’s lips when girl starts to protest. “And you’re not meant to be. You are not perfect, and you’re killing yourself trying. But baby… you’re perfect  _for me_.”

It’s so cliché but she smiles, a real one; she’s getting into that space where everything is warm, not just her skin. It’s like it’s the second act of a musical and her beating was the intermission. It’s absurd but girl knows that it just works.

Rachel is cuddling her closer than ever and girl knows it’s because she’s worried; this only causes her to feel guiltier, but Rachel hasn’t stopped talking and girl realizes she’s hungry for it. She closes her eyes and curls up, listening.

“No one makes me as happy as you do, baby. No one makes me smile or laugh, no one makes love to me the way you do. No one loves me the way you do.”

“No one hurts you the way girl does.”

“Did I give you permission to speak?” Rachel’s voice is hesitant, and girl can’t do anything but hug her fiercely. She may have used the word but the collar is still on.

“No, girl is sorry, Rachel.”

“Yes, you hurt me, but I also know  _why_ , just like I knew why all those years ago when I was 15 and you were the meanest bitch in school.” She kisses the top of girl’s head to soften the blow of her words. “You were stuck in that house, in that role, with people who couldn’t love you and appreciate you the way you deserved. Now in your job you still feel like he’s constantly standing over you, judging you, am I right?”

Girl nods forlornly.

“Baby, you are more than good enough. You are beautiful, you are smart, you are amazing at what you do and you are amazing at being my wife.” Girl reaches up her hand to toy with Rachel’s hair, the dark curls slipping through her fingers. Rachel is so beautiful. So perfect. Everything girl… isn’t?

“Look at me.” Girl does what she is told, and the love in Rachel’s eyes almost breaks her heart all over again. But she can’t stop staring because she feels a bit of the old Qui- girl coming back, and she clings to it, to Rachel, as if it is the only thing that will save her.

“Baby,” Rachel says, and kisses her. “My baby, I am so proud of you.”

Rachel always says this, and girl always blinks in shock. But this time, she has a different reason. She speaks out of turn again, but it has to be said.

“But girl… girl used the word… girl disappointed Rachel. Girl always disappoints Rachel.”

“Hush.” Rachel puts her finger over girl’s lips again, and smiles when girl kisses it. “Why is that word there?”

Girl sighs; sometimes she wishes Rachel would just  _tell_  her these things, but she understands. “So that girl can use it when she feels like she can’t take it anymore.”

“And could you take it anymore tonight, baby?”

“No, Rachel.”

“I’m sorry,” Rachel says, and girl moves up to kiss her cheek when she hears the grief in her voice. “I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard, baby, I never meant to-“

“Girl needed it. Girl needs it. She knows Rachel loves her.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. Girl does.”

“But I’m also sorry for not taking care of you as well as I should have.” Girl shakes her head but once again Rachel shushes her. “I should have seen how frustrated you were getting, I should have realized long before now what it was doing to you. I-I think maybe… baby, I think maybe we might need to discuss me having a little more control… every day.”

Girl’s eyes widen as she considers this. These sessions  _had_  gotten a little more frequent; this was her second in as many months. Could she do that? She wondered. Could she be herself at work and in public, but at home, in private, could she be Rachel’s girl, always, letting Rachel make the decisions and take care of her? Could girl trust that Rachel would always know what was best?

But she was already giving her answer. “Girl knows Rachel will do what we think is best.”

We. Rachel chuckles and girl grins, blushing a little. She’s back, and they both know it. Well, she’s almost back.

Rachel senses this, and she gently pushes girl away from her. “On your knees.”

Girl wordlessly slips off the bed and kneels at Rachel’s feet, her hands once again behind her back and her head down. The collar slips off easily and Rachel places it on the bedside table.

“Come here.”

She jumps forward and wraps her arms around Rachel’s waist, tucking her head into Rachel’s stomach. She breathes in Rachel’s scent, feels Rachel’s arms strong and secure around her. She takes in a long shuddering breath and… Rachel is not him. Rachel is not him, and Rachel is not leaving, and she…

She is whole again.

“Look at me.”

She looks up.

“What are you?”

“Yours.”

“Who are you?”

She lifts her chin and Rachel beams at her.

“Quinn Fabray-Berry.”

Rachel pulls the covers tight around them when Quinn climbs back into bed, nestling herself at Rachel’s side with her head on Rachel’s shoulder. There will be no nightmares tonight. Just Rachel and Quinn curled together. And in the morning…

“Don’t set the alarm,” Quinn says suddenly. She absently rubs Rachel’s stomach with her hand. No, she doesn’t want the alarm set. She knows she won’t be going to work but she doesn’t want to wake up early to do anything from home. She flings her arm, the one not now draped over Rachel, out and grabs her cell phone, turning it off. She tosses it back onto her table.

She knows Rachel is smiling in the darkness. “I love you,” she says.

“Oh, Rach,” Quinn answers, “I love you too.”


End file.
